Page 29 of Contracted to the Bikers

Rook stands behind the desk, hands braced against the wood, shoulders tense, head slightly lowered like he’s been staring at something for too long. Cruz is leaning against the far wall, one boot hooked behind the other, arms loosely crossed, giving the impression of relaxation, but his eyes are sharp, tracking every movement. Boone is near the window, still and solid, his presence quiet but heavy in the room.

The air feels thick, a storm sealed into four walls. The door clicks shut behind me with deafening finality. This is it, now or never.

No one speaks. We’re at a stalemate, everyone waiting for someone to light the gunpowder. I step further inside, the wooden floor creaking faintly under my weight, the smell of leather and old paper grounding me just enough to stay steady.

“We need to talk,” I say. My voice comes out calmer than I feel.

Rook lifts his head slowly. His dark eyes find mine immediately, controlled and angry. “Then talk.” There’s no softness, no easing in. He’s made his mind up about what I’m going to say before I’ve said it, and feels betrayed. He’s clearly pissed that I took actions into my own hands last night. In hindsight I know it was a foolish thing to do, and if Boone hadn’t followed me, it could have ended up so much worse. But I can’t take back what happened.

I slip into work mode, Sloane the lawyer. I move to the center of the room and set my laptop down on the desk between us, the quiet thud louder than it should be. “I found something,” I say.

Cruz straightens slightly, pushing off the wall just enough to shift his weight forward. “What kind of something?”

“The kind that explains why Escar hasn’t stopped despite being behind bars.”

That gets their attention, they all ease closer to get a better look. I open the file and turn the screen so they can see. I gave Boone a run down last night so he’s familiar with what I’m about to say, but he still looks at the screen intently.

“The financial structure I uncovered that we used to prosecute Escar is still active,” I say.

Rook’s brows pull together slightly. “That’s not possible.”

“It is,” I reply. “It’s under different names, different companies, but it’s the exact same framework.” I tap the screen, pulling up the layers. “Shell companies stacked in sequence. Money looping through internal transfers before landing clean.” I point out what I’m talking about, showing them in simple terms that a layman can understand.

Cruz moves closer, leaning over the desk, one hand braced beside the laptop. ”Jesus,” he mutters. “They’re identical.”

“Yes.”

Rook’s gaze shifts from the screen to me. “So, Escar has someone running it externally while he’s locked up. Where does it lead?”

I meet his eyes. “Harlan Briggs.”

The room tightens. They’re all familiar with the name. Briggs is a major player in town, practically untouchable, and until now, seemingly squeaky clean. “Briggs’ main base of operations is four blocks from here.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. “You’re sure?” Cruz asks. We’d be making a powerful enemy in Briggs, whether I’m right or wrong.

“Yes.”

Rook straightens slowly, tension rolling through his shoulders. “That means he’s been working under our noses the entire time.”

“Yes.” The thought is harrowing. Briggs knew how to get to me all along. Our haven was right on the doorstep of the man who tried to kill me. “I think Escar wasn’t just seeking revenge. I think that they were worried that I would eventually make the connection and come after Briggs, too.”

Boone grimaces. “You moving in here probably made them even more suspicious that you were digging into Briggs.”

Rook studies the screen, brow furrowed. “And you just found this out now?” I can practically see the cogs of his brain working, wondering if that was the case, why Boone would be the one to gather them together this morning.

“I found it yesterday,” I say. I wait a beat, then decide I might as well admit it now, like tearing off a Band-Aid. “I went there last night.”

The explosion is immediate. Rook’s hand slams flat against the desk, the crack of it echoing through the room. “You did what?”

Cruz pushes off the desk entirely now, pacing like he needs movement to process. “You went alone?” he demands.

“Yes.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Cruz spits, throwing his arms wide with exasperation.

My chin juts out defensively. “I needed confirmation.”

“Jesus, Sloane—” Cruz rubs his hand along his face.